Memories are strange things. Each of us observes and perceives things
differently, so shared memories can vary wildly. Plus those occurrences have differing
importance for each of us, so what might become a vivid memory for one
observant, will become a forgotten memory for another. It’s incomprehensible to me how memory works,
or in many cases, doesn’t work. Why do I
remember very specific information about one hit wonder Canadian band, Glass Tiger, who I regard as one of
the worst bands to ever have been professionally recorded, but can’t remember
if I took my daily medications this morning.
I’m sure this is likely a worrisome sign of my on-setting dementia. Why do some memories come flooding in with
amazing detail at random times, while others languish in obscurity just out of
reach?
I’ve heard that most women who have
given birth, cannot recall exactly how painful the experience was. That would explain people who give birth more
than once, but something tells me that this is fiction created by some male, to
feel better about himself. During my
multiple hospital stays over the past 40 years or so, I have experienced some
pretty intense pain, and I can recall the experiences very clearly, if I choose
to. I generally do not choose to. If I ever find myself in similar situations
my fight and then flight mechanisms activate quickly. I’ve had some embarrassing scenes in recent
years because of my fear of re-experiencing medical pains from the past.
The numbing of past pain for me has generally occurred from emotional pain – not so much physical pain, although I do not deny that they can be deeply intertwined. However, like so many of us, I get those random late night memories thinking about a past relationship that had run afoul years ago. Sometimes those memories are positive ones, and those good memories can be tricky. For example, this happened to me recently. I was looking back at a past relationship fondly, and believe it or not, could not for the life of me, remember why the relationship ended. In this case, the very next day, I pulled some random papers from a file that had bits of past writing inside, and there it was: evidence of why that particular relationship failed. It astounded me that it all so easily slipped my mind. There was plenty of solid proof as to why that shit needed to end for both parties involved. I feel like an idiot typing this! I know, I know, but it’s these lapses in memory that can get us into trouble.
Aren’t we supposed to learn from our experiences? Like the old example of a child burning their fingers on a hot stove. Next time they’ll know better. That gets socked away into the memory banks, and for most of us, stays there forever. I wonder why our brains selectively choose what memories to lock away for future reference, and what to discard. Obviously, some of us are better at learning lessons from past mistakes, or remembering how to avoid pain.
I guess I’m a little stunned at
reading about a past failed relationship from the perspective of when it had
still been fresh, and discovering that I had pushed those negative feelings so
far aside that I wasn’t really certain of the validity of what I was reading. I
immediately began to make excuses. I
allowed the obvious: the failure part of the relationship was at least mine as
much as it was hers. I could only remember those good times – the comforting
times. I envisioned how we have both
changed over the past several years. Forgiveness
is one thing, but foolishness is another.
Light up that stove top! Maybe I
can stick my face on there.
I find memories, whether accurate or
not, incredibly important and endlessly intriguing. Memories are made up of all of our individual
experiences. I am fascinated by people’s
stories, or their collection of memories – scars and all. To me, these are what make us all unique and
interesting. Why does the memory of
first hearing David & David’s “Welcome
to the Boomtown” stick with me? Why do I
remember that more so than my high school graduation? Maybe one day that specific memory will serve
me. Maybe not, but it does tell a small
story about who I am and what I’m made of.
It’s these things that I want to know about others. It concerns me that I know fictional
characters from novels, television shows, or movies better than some people I’ve
known for thirty years. Why do so many
of us keep our experiences so close to the vest? I suppose that most of us simply don’t trust
each other with this personal information or we don’t care. Perhaps, if we were more willing to share our
memories with each other, we might collectively learn more life lessons. Or perhaps not.
